


Brittle As Autumn Leaves

by Musyc



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: AU, Angst, Community: samhain_smut, Cousincest, Draco Malfoy - character, F/M, Nymphadora Tonks - character, PostWar, Samhain, Voldemort Wins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-06
Updated: 2010-11-06
Packaged: 2017-10-13 02:06:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/131626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Musyc/pseuds/Musyc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>No greetings, no small talk, no conversation. That's their rule. No simple chatter, no pretense of affection and romance, no pillow talk. Just the groans and grunts of sex. It's safest that way.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Brittle As Autumn Leaves

The key he gave her a year ago warms in her pocket, and she leaves for the dingy, creaking flat in Knockturn Alley. Wrapped in a thick cloak, shadowed by a wide hood, she goes with hurried steps and her heart pounding like a raven's beating wings. She avoids the sidelong glances of strangers, turns away from the whispers as she climbs the rickety stairs at the rear of a dim and dusty shop. She hides. He walks in bold, as if he owns the building. For all she knows, he does. They've never spoken of it.

They rarely speak.

No greetings, no small talk, no conversation. That's their rule. No simple chatter, no pretense of affection and romance, no pillow talk. Just the groans and grunts of sex. It's safest that way.

She pushes open the leaded panels of the window and looks out, watching brittle orange leaves dance across the rooftops of the close-packed shops, watching a black cat hunt through piles of rubbish for a plump rat dinner. The door opens behind her. She doesn't turn. His boots thump on the uneven wooden floor. He steps behind her, presses to her back. One arm slips around her waist. Long and slender fingers slide under the thin fabric of her jumper. He palms her bare breast, strokes one finger around her nipple.

She closes her eyes and leans back, her head on his shoulder. He pulls her hair away from her neck and bends to nip at her throat. They were careful to leave no marks in the beginning, no evidence of their hours together, but now they no longer care. She smears his throat with scarlet lip stains; he bruises her hips with thin purple handprints.

He slips her jumper up to her shoulders and cradles her breasts in both hands. He rubs his thumbs across her nipples, back and forth, circling and circling, until they are pebbled and hard, as round as the moon that hovers low in the cloudy sky. She reaches up, her hands joining over the nape of his neck, the ends of his hair tickling her knuckles. She arches her back and tips her head, her throat exposed for the warmth of his tongue.

He growls against her neck, a low rumble that vibrates through her and sets her heart pounding. His teeth set against the pulse in her throat and he pulls back, scraping a pale pink line in her skin. She turns in his arms and drags his head down. Lips meet lips with bruising force. She sinks her teeth into his lower lip and pulls until the skin breaks and coppery blood stains his thin mouth. She licks it away, pushes it into his mouth, sucks it from his tongue. His hands tighten on her waist, his fingers dig into the small of her back.

He pushes her back and yanks her jumper over her head. In the scant second while her head is hidden from him, she changes. Her brown hair takes on the color of forests in autumn. Dark red waves laced with gold and orange, falling around her shoulders like drifting leaves. He smiles once her jumper is on the floor. The shift always fascinates him, excites him. It reminds him of the first time, when he fucked her with such a fury that her orgasm ripped her true form to the surface. Dark hair, pointed features, grey eyes.

She goes up on her toes and mouths the point of his jaw, licks along the thin trail of stubble to nibble on his chin. As she moves, she hooks her fingers in the placket of his shirt and rips it apart, sending buttons scattering into the dusty corners of the room. He laughs and she sets her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes to hide the flash of sorrow in them. It's so rare that he can laugh. With a deep breath, she gathers herself and pushes the shirt off his shoulders, careful to avoid the long scar that bisects his chest. It's old, silvery pale with time passed, but he hates to have it touched.

She slides both hands up his back and he inhales sharply just as her fingers brush over a thin, rough line between his shoulders. She leans back and examines his face, the furrow of his brows and the tightness around his eyes, then pushes to step around him. The wound is scabbed over, healing, but still fresh. She judges it's no more than three or four days old.

 _Stop him, stop him! He's getting away!_

She puts both hands on his biceps and her forehead against his shoulder blade. They'd arrived too late to save the family that had been the latest in the New Ministry's cleansings, but early enough to surprise the Death Eaters who circled the burning house, laughing. The few remnants of the Order had followed as the black-robed men scattered with mocking shrieks. She'd chased one, fired a spell that cut across his back. The shout he'd made had been in a voice familiar enough to make her hesitate from throwing a second spell, and he'd escaped. She'd been angry about it then.

Now she is relieved.

She tips her head and kisses the top point of the fresh scar, slips her hands around his ribs to smooth across his chest. She clings to him as she kisses down the length of the scar to the small of his back where two dimples sit on either side of his spine. Her hands slide down his chest and find the fastenings of his trousers. She pops the button and presses her palm against the length of his cock through the fabric. He's thick and hardening, and she molds the fabric around him, stroking from root to tip with two fingers.

He groans, quietly. It's hardly a noise at all, more of a loud exhale, but she smiles as she stands. She knows that it won't be long before he's unable to restrain himself. He reaches behind and gropes for her wrist to pull her around, the black snake dancing in his forearm as the muscles tense and twist. She'd made him keep it covered the first few times, but now it was the same as his grey eyes and blond hair. Part of him.

She stands in front of him, toes off her shoes, and shimmies out of her trousers. The chill breeze coming through the open window prickles at her skin, bringing out gooseflesh on her stomach and thighs. He smiles and draws her close to stroke her arms and back. The heat of his body warms her in short order. He runs his fingers through her hair, smiles deeper, then tightens his grip and hauls her head back. She whimpers as he exposes her throat, keens when he bends to bite at the flesh over her pulse. He holds on, digs in, and she knows from the pain alone that he's leaving teeth marks in her skin.

The slight sting of pain makes her wet, and she feels her thighs slicken as they rub together. He growls into her throat when she moves, and his arm tightens around her back, crushing her against his body. His cock is solid against her stomach, and her fingers fly to get his trousers open. It's rare for him to strip completely. It's faster to yank trousers up than pull them on, and sometimes he has to leave in a hurry. Sometimes he writhes, biting back a curse, as the dark brand in his arm calls him to duty, and the one time he didn't respond within seconds, he came to her the next visit with new scars decorating his back in twisting stripes.

He walks her backward and she yelps when her arse bumps the pointed edge of the windowsill. Without changing expressions, he picks her up and sets her on the sill. She grips both sides of the frame, holding on tight. He pushes her thighs apart and steps between them. His fingers slip into the folds of her quim and he hums with pleased approval when her juices slick his skin as soon as he touches her. He pushes in, one finger and thrust, two fingers and thrust, and on three, she drops her head back with a deep moan. She takes a long breath, concentrates, and exhales as she shifts. The tight grip of her body eases and he slides a fourth finger into her.

She's already halfway to orgasm and he's just getting started. He reaches deep, long fingers finding that soft, spongy area with ease, and he presses on it. He crooks his fingers and rubs across it, and she grips the window frame until the wood creaks. She wraps her legs around his thighs, hooking her ankles together behind him, and uses him for leverage to rock her hips and push his thumb against her clit. He hums again and his free hand strokes across her breasts. He takes one nipple and pinches it, soft, harder, _harder_. She howls as the pain sings through her, meeting the throbbing pleasure low in her abdomen.

She convulses as she comes, head flung back, knees tight to his hips, thighs trembling. Her teeth sink into her lip to hold back her moans, then he grinds his thumb on her clit, and she can't stop the escape of a long and rolling scream. She soaks his hand and the windowsill, hears droplets of fluid spattering to the wooden floor, smells musk rising to float out the window and join the scent of woodsmoke and autumn winds. She slumps forward, head falling against his shoulder, legs falling to thud against the wall.

He draws his fingers free of her and licks two of them clean. Before he can take care of the other two, she lifts her head enough to do it for him. He gives a quiet moan when she slips her tongue around his knuckles and across his palm. He grips her knees and balances her legs around his waist, then places her arms around his neck. She holds on as he picks her up and carries her to the narrow bed in the corner of the flat. A quick flick of his wand cleans the dust from the linens, and he sets her down.

She rolls to her back, knees bent up and feet wide, hands cupping her breasts and thumbs flicking her nipples. She doesn't even think about the position. She moves into it automatically. He won't lay on his back; he won't kneel. He won't surrender control to her. She understands, in a way. He's already controlled by a madman of a master. This is his escape from that, if only for a few minutes.

She tugs her nipples into points, expecting him to settle between her thighs with his trousers to his ankles. Her eyes widen and her hands go still when he toes off his boots and shoves his trousers off his hips. He's stripping to skin, and she can't help the smile that brightens her face. He's telling her that he knows he won't be needed again tonight, that he can take his time with her. She refuses to think about what that might mean outside the walls of the flat, that maybe the other Death Eaters are celebrating in their own ways and revels. She can't think about it. She can only think about him.

He stretches out beside her and pushes her hand off one breast. He bows his head and sucks her nipple between his lips. She'd changed the shape and size of her breasts in the beginning, but now she keeps them at her natural size and she's never sensed anything but appreciation from him. He likes being able to cover her breast entirely in one hand.

She threads her fingers through his hair as he sucks on her nipple. His cock is warm and solid against her thigh, twitching now and again as it stiffens. She wriggles one hand between them and wraps her fingers around it to give him long, slow strokes. Her thumb rubs across the head, around the ridge, down the thick band that runs along the underside of his length. He groans against her breast and lifts his head. She spreads her legs again in invitation.

He pushes up and over her, the veins in his arms standing out under his skin as his muscles tense. The head of his cock prods her folds and she reaches down to guide him in. Even with the stretch afforded by her earlier shift and the slickness of her orgasm, it's a tight fit, and they both take several grunting breaths until he's sheathed in her. His head hangs, his fringe brushing her chest, swaying with each short thrust. She wraps her arms around his back and smoothes her hands over his shoulder blades, careful to avoid the scabbed wound.

His nape and shoulders soon dampen with sweat, his skin heats until it's almost searing her hands. His rhythm is steady and slow, long and deep. She drags her hands down his spine and digs her nails into his arse. He gasps, jerks, and picks up speed. Tossing his hair out of his eyes, he meets her gaze and grins. She licks her mouth and rocks her hips, thrusting up to shove his cock deeper, harder. He takes the hint. He lowers to his forearms; she wraps her legs around his hips.

He drives into her with slick, heavy slaps of body to body. She watches his face as his expression shifts. His forehead furrows, brows lower, lips press together into a thin line. His pale lashes flutter; his eyes turn the color of wet granite. She can feel his cock throbbing inside her and she rakes her nails up his back. He cries out, convulses, and stiffens over her as he comes. Every muscle in his body goes still, but she can see his pulse fluttering wildly in his throat. She pushes up on her elbows and bites his neck. The sting of pain pulls a final throb from him.

He shudders, groaning, and collapses on her, his face turned to her neck, his arms sprawled around her shoulders. She clings to him, smoothing his damp fringe back from his forehead. She closes her eyes and sighs as he relaxes, his cock softening within her. A band of clouds moves away from the moon and pours silver light over them as she drifts.

She wakes alone, covered with her cloak. The pillow beside her still holds the faintest scent of his shampoo. She's never been able to identify the scent, but she knows she'll never be able to associate it with anyone but him. She stretches, yawning, and knocks a scrap of parchment to the floor. She blinks and rolls over to pick it up, peers at it in the pink light of dawn.

 _Alistair Jennings. Cleansing tonight._

She sits up, heart pounding. One of their New Ministry contacts in deep cover, Alistair has recently delivered news that he believes suspicions were being aroused about his work. She crumples the parchment up in her hand. Looks like he's right.

As she balls the parchment up, she sees more writing on the reverse side, and she flattens it out on her knee.

 _Don't cut up my back again._

She starts to smile, but the next two lines stop her.

 _Strike to kill._

 _I have to._

She stares at the parchment for a long minute, then shreds it into dozens of small pieces. She carries it to the window and tosses it out, letting the wind take it to mix with the brittle autumn leaves. They both know their duty, no matter if they can forget for one night. No matter how much she tries.


End file.
